


Sketched Out

by jambees221b, oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Moleskines. So many moleskines., Romance, Slow Burn, Unexpectedly Appreciative Patron of the Arts, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-01 00:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10910469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambees221b/pseuds/jambees221b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur might accidentally sketch his colleague more often than he intends to, but it's only a coping mechanism to deal with some inconvenient feelings. It's fine. Until his moleskine goes astray, and then it's suddenly a problem. A very big problem.





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> This project is the fruit of a collaboration between a new writer and an experienced enabler, and prompted by the marvellous illustrations below. If, by chance, anyone knows who created this amazing art, please contact us so that proper credit can be given. EDIT: [Artist found!](http://sin-repent.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Chapters in Arthur’s point of view were written by Jambees221b, while Eames’ came from the brilliant mind of Oceaxe.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

It starts innocently enough.

Arthur's always been a doodler. From as early as he could remember, he drew on every conceivable surface his tiny hands could reach. As he grew older, doodles became intricate designs, cartoonish figures became more and more detailed. School notebooks were filled to the brim with portraits and abstract images, creating organic webs of information and art.

He carried the habit along to dreamshare. He didn't feel compelled to draw each and every detail pertinent to the job, but getting the moleskine out and committing elements to paper grounded him and helped him flesh out what laid ahead.

In his secluded corner of the warehouse, Arthur reviews the day's notes and quick sketches, adding details to lines that were traced haphazardly throughout the day. Two simple asymmetrical lines become an elaborate rendition of the mark’s favourite flowers. A few pencil strokes add depth to yet another paradoxical design Ariadne mentioned when they covered the architecture of the second layer. Two similar geometric shapes grow significantly in contrast, making it easier to choose between wallpaper alterations to indicate a fail-safe in the first layer. Shading makes a focal point crisper, bringing life to the hotel lobby the first layer will be based on. Curvaceous lines turn into luscious, inviting lips, beckoning Arthur to touch, explore, get lost in the moment.

Arthur curses under his breath.

He’s done it again. Staring back at him from the moleskine is a set of expressive eyes, a perfect match for the knowing smirk Arthur drew against his better judgement. The familiar face has audaciously taken over his precious assignment notes, uninvited. As bold as the man itself, the portrait is as unwelcome on the page as the horrible paisley patterned tie Eames had inflicted on the world today. The forger’s likeness had appeared on the page via the same modus operandi as it always did, hijacking an otherwise perfectly sensible line and claiming the spot where the pristine orbs of the second layer’s skylights should be. 

With a growl, Arthur sweeps the moleskine off the desk, letting it fall in the paper bin next to his desk. Out of sight, out of mind. Another perfectly fine notebook going to waste, though. More collateral damage caused by the whims of his unconscious artistic drabbling. He’ll have to place a new order. 

At least, he could count his blessings that, miraculously, he managed once more to keep his compulsive drawing unbeknownst to his teammates. Luckily, the man himself is out, leaving him alone with Ariadne, who’s been working at the other end of the warehouse for several hours now, trying to put together a model for the complex level they settled on earlier that day.

This has to stop. There’s only so much a sane man can spend on Moleskines. He needs a breath of fresh air. Or a drink. 

“Everything alright, Arthur?” calls out Ariadne, without raising her eyes.

“Nothing to worry about," he answers back, trying to keep his bad mood in check. ”I’ll be back in a few.”

Leaving the offending artwork behind in the bin, Arthur grabs his suit jacket and goes out the door in search of a much needed coffee.


	2. Eames

Eames grimaces as he slinks back into the main part of the warehouse where the team is planning the world’s dullest extraction. That is to say, Eames is doing most of the planning, Ariadne is designing it, and Arthur -as usual- is poking holes in every strategy Eames puts forth. It doesn't help to remind himself that this will lead to a stronger plan in the long run when he thinks about the prim, bland look on Arthur’s face as he torpedoes yet another brilliant idea. As though Arthur can happily spend all day putting paid to any errant notion Eames might have about his own professional competence , as he tips back on his spidery little chair without breaking a sweat.

It’s a bit much, frankly, and since he appears to be out of the office at the moment, Eames is of half a mind to play a little trick on him. Put a whoopee cushion on his chair, hack into his computer and change the screensaver to a neat little gifset he’d made from his favorite Pornhub video. Something of that nature.

Glancing around the airy space, he sees that Ariadne is entirely focused on a new model of the ultra-modern galleria in which they are to stage the extraction. And Arthur, blessedly, is still not in evidence. Eames actually rubs his hands together in glee, god help him. He isn’t fussed about not actually having much in the way of a plan—extemporaneous trickstering is his stock in trade. 

Sidling up to Arthur’s workstation, his eyes skitter around the surface for any likely opportunities. His laptop is there, but that is likely triple-encrypted and booby-trapped; hacking the password would take too much time and Eames doesn’t fancy his chances of survival if he were caught breaking Arthur’s security. He kneels down to see how the legs of the chair are attached, with a vague idea of loosening some screws to send Arthur crashing down to the ground. Eames is lost for a moment or two in happy contemplation of the picture he will make, thus upended: legs splayed, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. The mental image, instead of amusing him, gives him a halfie and he shakes his head at himself as he examines the chair’s undercarriage. However, the legs are welded on and he decides he has better things to do than try to get one over on Arthur, anyway. 

He lifts himself back off the concrete floor, feeling a little silly and juvenile, and that’s when he sees it.

 _Hold up, what’s this?_ Eames’ gaze alights on a thick black squared-off … something … poking up above the crumpled papers in the waste bin. It seems too good to be true. Arthur would never just throw out one of his jealously-guarded Moleskines, for Christ’s sake. He almost walks away, but as he takes a faltering step towards his own corner of the makeshift office, his eye is pulled back, as if by a magnet, to the hard dark line of the… is it the Moleskine? It can’t be. 

It is.

Eames bends over to tie his shoe, and while he’s down there, his hand slips silently amongst the wads and wrappers to fish out the—yes, the Moleskine. Arthur’s Moleskine. It is difficult to keep the smugness off his face as he rises to walk to the comfy chair he salvaged from a rubbish tip, and besides, Ariadne’s not even looking at him, so he doesn’t bother. 

“Eames!” Ariadne’s voice rings out. “What have you got?” 

He turns, concealing the small book behind his back. “A blistering case of herpes, love!” he calls back, and winks. 

Ariadne just stares at him, mouth pulled to the side in a mild, skeptical moue. “Did you just go through Arthur’s trash?” 

“I have no need to rummage through Arthur’s shit when he gives it to me for free every day.” Eames is appalled at how bitter he sounds, but attempts to play it off with a roguish smile and a shrug. 

“Yeah, well—you’d better not mess with him, Eames. I think he’s having some kind of breakdown.” She cocks her head to the side, clearly still suspicious. He backs away, still facing her, until her gaze falls back on her model, which is now listing to one side. “Fuck!” she says, and frantically shores it up with what looks like binder clips and sellotape. 

Now that she’s sufficiently distracted, Eames smirks and spins around, holding his prize like a pearl beyond price. Which it is. Finally. After all these years. He’s going to see Arthur’s notes. 

No one sees Arthur’s notes.

The Moleskine is glowing in his hand like the fucking Ark of the Covenant. He’s overheated with anticipation, a little afraid to meet the same fate as the baddies in the movie when they crack the seal on the Holy of Holies. Nevertheless, he lifts the cover to reveal … 

A series of numbers that go on for page after page. Are they—primes? Is Arthur just robotically listing prime numbers as he appears to take meticulous notes at each meeting? Eames has always assumed that he was carefully sussing each speaker’s motivations and weak points, making insightful deductions of their character and likely proclivities. Eames realizes that he’s imagined so many things about the contents of one of these books that the reality was bound to be a disappointment, but this? _Oh Arthur,_ he thinks. _You really have no imagination after all._

His stomach drops a moment later as he flips quickly towards the back of the notebook. Sketches.

Loads of sketches. Abstract designs, mostly, interspersed with renderings of classic paradoxes and labyrinths. And. 

Him.

Over and over, himself, from different angles, different perspectives. His features, separately and in concert, varied in expression and mood. One sketch is just his lower face, his lips parted, a sheen of wetness making them look like plump ripe fruit. He reaches a hand out to steady himself.

There’s a page that contains only his name, scrawled in a loose, looping cursive, overlapping in echoes.

It should be creepy, off-putting. It’s anything but. Eames feels lightheaded, almost sick, as he slips the notebook under the cushion of his armchair and then slumps down into it. 

_What the fuck, Arthur?_ rings through his mind, repeating into infinity. Paradoxes, indeed.

Eames stands up, a little unsteady on his feet, and makes his dazed way out of the warehouse with the vague intention of having a cigarette, or a drink, or a cold shower, which he is suddenly in desperate need of. He hardly hears Ariadne calling after him, waving her off with a distracted hand as the ever-churning wheels in his mind kick into overdrive.


	3. Arthur

The short walk from the nearby coffee shop back to the warehouse does little to temper Arthur’s irritation regarding the fact that two hours of careful sketching just went up in smoke. 

Making his way back to his desk, he contemplates the idea of setting the paper bin on fire, Moleskine included, turning it into a sacrificial pyre and imploring any deity that hasn’t given up on him yet to help him channel some focus and stop turning his notebook into a freaky Eames shrine.

Who is he kidding? Security risk aside, he just can’t part with these impromptu sketches. Time to retrieve the Moleskine from the trash can, find a subtle way of switching it for a new one and relegate the incriminating material to his suitcase’s hidden compartment. From there, the notebook would rejoin its kin in a box under lock and key in a safe house, and never, even under duress, would he admit to revisiting his favourite sketches every so often.

Arthur sits down and blindly reaches under the desk to pick up the discarded Moleskine, only managing to topple the paper bin over. Backing up to look at what he’s doing, a growing sense of unease supplants his irritation. 

Giving a quick look in Ariadne’s direction, he ducks under the desk. Pencil shavings, the container from yesterday’s very disappointing sandwich, four gum wrappers. Nothing of interest on the floor. With shaking hands, he rights the wastebasket and starts rummaging in earnest. Six crumpled pieces of paper. Five tissues. Two empty coffee cups. Bottom of the bin. 

His blood turns to ice. 

Expletives in five different languages don’t give any relief to the feeling of dread that is rapidly taking over Arthur’s body.

_Calm, centered, in control. Calm, centered, in control. Calm, centered, in control._

The mantra he normally uses to avoid losing his shit when Dom’s erratic behaviour threatens to get them all killed just keeps on spinning faster and faster in his mind, out of control.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he reaches into his pocket, out of sheer optimism and wishful thinking. This cannot be happening. How did he end up in this warehouse? Arthur, best point man in dreamshare, does _not_ waste precious planning time on drawing eccentric and annoying coworkers, no matter how exquisite and bewitching their features are. Arthur, best point man in dreamshare, does _not_ misplace moleskines filled with sensitive information that could compromise the job. Arthur, best point man in dreamshare, does _not_ reach such a level of amateurism that his reputation couldn’t ever recover from. 

He must be dreaming. This is the only rational explanation.

As his hand gets hold of his totem, he has to come to terms with the fact that a gun to the head will not solve the issue. 

Fuck.

_Calm, centered, in control._ No one needs to know. 

He gives a quick look around the neglected warehouse. The place’s run down enough that vermin could easily wander around, but no animal would find a notebook appetizing enough to make a lunch out of it. His workstation is uncluttered, leaving ample room to make the document visible in the event of a benevolent coworker picking it up from the trash. They met the client in another fucking country. They haven’t even approached the mark yet. There’s no way the job is compromised. Is there? How could someone know at what precise moment Arthur would leave the warehouse for ten minutes to grab a coffee? Is the team oblivious enough for someone to break it and make a run for it with his notes? Yusuf mentioned having to deal with a new supplier for the compound. Did someone rat them out?

_Stop it. Focus._

Bracing himself, he clears his throat to catch Ariadne’s attention. Trying to sound as casual as possible even though his heart rate is through the roof and his hands are getting clammier by the minute, he manages a snappish “Did someone take my notebook?”

No reaction from Adriane, far too engrossed by her model. “My notebook”, he repeats, trying really hard to keep his voice level, despite his exasperation. “Did. Someone. Take. My. Notebook?”

Ariadne’s head snaps up, a strange expression on her face.

“Do you know someone suicidal enough to take that risk?” Eames says brightly as he enters the warehouse, aggravatingly insouciant as ever.

“Come again?” says Arthur through gritted teeth. 

The forger unglues his eyes from his phone and pointedly stares at the coffee cup on Arthur’s desk, abandoned in the wake of his burgeoning panic “I’m just saying that maybe you dropped it on the way back from the shops, along with the sustenance you were kindly bringing for the team, yeah? You know, the delicious pastries from the coffee shop that are disturbingly not gracing my desk? I’m a bit peckish, you know?” 

A pause. The beginning of a smirk, sure companion to Eames’ merciless teasing. Arthur’s stomach drops. He’ll never hear the end of it.

“Or have you looked up your shapely arse, sweetheart? Being the distracted prickly pear you’ve been during this entire job, I’d run away from you too if I were that notebook. If no one else wants the honor, I volunteer to check if it’s actually up—”

For once, Arthur’s death stare shuts Eames off long enough for him to retort. “Seriously? Am I the only one who’s aware that we’re on a timetable, here? You don’t have the fucking notebook? Shut the fuck up. Some of us have better things to do than sit around all day, playing on their damn phone!”

Eames drops the phone on his desk and raises his hands in mock surrender. To Arthur’s dismay, he then proceeds to lean back in his chair and languidly stretch, the movement making his shirt ride up, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of skin where he apparently missed a button. 

Eames’ playful tone snaps him back into focus. “Are you calling me unprofessional, darling? ’Cause that’s bloody rich from the man who can’t be arsed to keep his own notes secure.”

Uncharacteristically at loss for words, Arthur tries to save face by schooling his features into his best frown before turning around and walking back to his desk. He pulls a brand new Moleskine out of his bag and gets ready to shift into high gear in order to make up for lost time. 

Closing his eyes, he allows himself a beat to try and process the clean, strong lines of Eames’ torso that are begging to be drawn. Like a song stuck in his head, he knows his invasive muse will not be ignored until he gives into it and lets the vision out. 

Right from the start of their fateful first job together in Montreal, the forger has been on his mind. Arthur’s been attracted to other people before. Hell, he even fancied himself in love, once. However, nothing compares to the overwhelming idée fixe he’s been stuck with ever since he met him in a dingy little restaurant in the middle of Chinatown. 

The man should have looked ridiculous, nursing a neon green bubble tea that could only claim by name to be kiwi-flavoured. Arthur should have winced at the horrid shade of his shirt. Instead, he could not tear his eyes away from the crooked teeth nibbling at the straw. Eames’ seductive lips and warm eyes haunted him for weeks, until Arthur finally allowed himself to draw him. Just once. The dams were opened that day. 

This first portrait is still a favorite of his. He could trace it from memory, having looked at it so much throughout the years its paper has become softly worn and the graphite slightly smudged. He remembers the immediate sense of relief upon completing it and the peace of mind he felt for a few months, until they met again. From then on, drawing Eames became his catharsis. Up until this day, it felt like a healthy and efficient coping mechanism. 

A clatter from Ariadne’s workstation startles him out of his reverie.

She apparently dropped a box cutter. What tips him off, however, is the embarrassed flush her face is sporting and the way she quickly turns around to avoid any eye contact with him. Suspicious, to say the least. 

Being the only one in the warehouse at the moment of the theft, she is after all the most likely suspect. Why would Ariadne steal his notebook, though? Arthur has a hard time wrapping his head around her possible motivation. Did she take a look at it out of curiosity and keep it as blackmail material to use against him? He quickly discards this theory. She had ample opportunity to do so in the past. A universe in which sweet, dependable Ariadne could betray him for such a trivial thing as leaving his notes unattended for ten minutes is too depressing to consider.

He keeps his eyes on the young architect, who is getting more and more restless, aware that she is being observed. The most probable hypothesis is the simplest one: she saw the drawings at the end of the moleskine, and without any context explaining them, she now thinks that she is working with a creepy stalker who is spending every waking hour planning some unsavoury deed involving Eames. 

He might be dealing with a little obsession, but he certainly means no harm, nor does he want to act on this attraction. It’s Eames we’re talking about, here. Even though he is sin incarnate and manages to push buttons Arthur didn’t even know he had, he is also the biggest flirt he has ever met. Rather than getting desensitized to the pet names punctuating his speech, each and every one of them is a harsh reminder that, however truly fantastic it would be to take them at face value, doing so would only serve to cover himself in ridicule. Eames’ every move, be it in action or in words, is aimed at getting a rise out of him. He won’t give him the satisfaction of revealing that he has fallen for mindless banter. 

He has to get things straight with Ariadne before this puts the job in jeopardy. Standing up slowly, he makes his way to her work area. Cornered, her staring eyes remind him of a deer about to bolt. Her hand grabs for her bag as she looks towards the door.

As soothingly as possible, he whispers. “You’re the one who took it, aren’t you?”

Her eyes open even more, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Arthur. I swear I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

He sighs. “Listen, I can explain. It’s not what you think. I just—“

He can’t even finish his sentence before she grabs her coat from her chair, pushes him aside and bolts for the door. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m out of tape and the model is falling apart on me. I have to run to the shop before it closes. Sorry!” 

Arthur can only watch as she slams the door open, gives a rushed, “See you tomorrow” to Eames and runs away into the late afternoon sun.


	4. Eames

Eames looks up from where he’s been feigning total absorption in some research on the forge target when he hears the door slam. 

He’s been hyper-aware of Arthur’s presence since he walked back into the warehouse, obviously, so he’s tuned into Arthur’s attempted interrogation of Ariadne, worried that she might sell him out. He feels almost guilty about doubting her, but he knows she can’t withstand the full force of Arthur’s determination, and she’s only bought herself a short reprieve with her ‘going-to-the-store’ routine. 

Arthur makes an abortive move towards the door, then shifts tack and approaches Eames. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see how reluctant Arthur is, hear how slow the treads of his Italian wingtips are on the concrete floor, and wonders at the reason. Surely he doesn’t suspect Eames?

Of _course_ he suspects Eames. The mere fact that Eames wasn’t in the warehouse when Arthur returned from his coffee expedition won’t be sufficient to prevent Arthur’s baleful glare from falling upon him. Even Eames’ attempt at normalcy, with the over-the-top snark about the notebook, won’t have put him off the scent. 

The barest approach of panic stirs in Eames’ veins. Hiding his newfound and ill-gotten knowledge of Arthur’s feelings about him will be the role of a lifetime. If he doesn’t cock this up, he’s going to deserve a major award. 

“Eames,” Arthur hisses, coiled as tightly with tension as if a hundred armed mercenaries had them surrounded. Eames allows his gaze to slide over to Arthur as though he hasn’t a care in the world, slow and insolent.

“Yes, darling?” he drawls, and has to stifle a wince at the instinctive endearment. It’s not as if he’s never used it on Arthur before--it’s his special epithet for him, after all--- but it has a new overtone of sincerity, at least to Eames’ ears. Arthur looms over him, a worried little furrow in his forehead, his mouth tight and unhappy. Eames suffers through a brief fantasy of pulling Arthur onto his lap and kissing the frown off his lips. 

“I’m concerned about Ariadne.” 

“Whatever for? She’s having some trouble with the model but the dreamscape will be tight as a drum come go-time, as always,” Eames says dismissively.

“Look, I heard that Molinari has been sniffing around for inside intel on all the active teams, you don’t think that she …” Arthur trails off, looking around, then back at Eames, almost helplessly.

“Arthur, Ariadne’s a brick. You know that.” Eames feels a light sweat break out along his hairline. Seeing Arthur in distress instigates a crazy impulse to smooth his brow and then never stop touching him. He has to get out of there, but he’s only just arrived. What possible reason could he...? Oh, perfect.

“You know I’d love to stay and concoct paranoid conspiracy theories about our trusted colleagues, but I’ve an appointment to get a pedicure at the forge target’s salon in the Galleria. Best be off! Ta!” He scoots his chair away from the desk as he spins his excuse, leaping out and away and is out the door not five minutes after he first walked in. 

Eames hops in a cab that fortuitously pulls to the curb as he steps into the lowering glare of evening sunlight and hightails it back to his hotel to think of a plan. It occurs to him that Arthur can easily check whether he’s been to the Galleria’s exclusive salon and changes his destination, causing the driver to huff and pull a U-turn in the middle of rush-hour traffic. 

He bribes his way into a pedicure station, the forge-target miraculously on shift, and settles down to enjoy the exfoliating rub-down as best he can with his mind going off in all directions at once. He has to get the Moleskine back to Arthur. 

But how?

A buzzing in his pocket causes him to jump. It’s Ariadne, and she sounds frantic. 

“Eames! Where is it?”

“Relax—” he starts, although despite the firm hands massaging his calf muscles, he himself is tense as a coiled spring.

“Don’t tell me to relax! What the fuck were you thinking?! You have to give it back! I can’t lie to Arthur! He’ll see right through me!” 

“I know, I know. I’ve been thinking,” he says, leaving off the fact that the thinking has mostly been about Arthur’s surprising skill in rendering unwitting conmen into high art. With a biro, no less.

“I really hope so, buddy, because we are in deep shit here!”

Eames takes a deep breath. “So, let’s say … okay, you’re going to have to take the fall, but it will be my fault, alright?”

“Damn right, it’s your fault.”

“Easy, tiger. We were playing cards, you ran out of money because I was sharking you—”  
Ariadne interrupts him with a snort. He continues blithely, “so on the next round you agreed to a dare, and I told you to steal Arthur’s journal.” 

“Great. So now he thinks I know what’s in his journal. He said something like ‘It’s not what you think.’ What did that even _mean_? What’s in there?”

Eames swallows hard. “It’s … it’s nothing. It’s very dull actually, nothing but prime numbers and some scribbled notes.” _And a shocking number of lovingly-detailed sketches of yours truly._

“Eames, that makes no sense. Why would he care so much if …” she trails off, sounding both puzzled and suspicious. “Well, maybe it was all in code or something,” she finished. 

_No, it was fairly crystal clear,_ Eames thinks to himself, a frisson of nervous excitement sparking through his stomach. “Yes, that, absolutely. Code.”

“So, but… where is it?”

“It’s between the cushions of my chair in the warehouse,” he says with a sinking sensation. One of them would have to go back to the warehouse and risk running into Arthur again, while he was likely on a very elegant rampage. 

“Well, I’m not going back to get it. I can’t see Arthur again without it in my hand. I will spill, Eames. So help me God, I will spill.” 

“Not to worry, pet. I’ll go myself later tonight and bring it to your hotel room. Come tomorrow morning, all will be well.” 

“Yeah, except Arthur will never trust me again. Like I’d ever play cards with you. _Or take Arthur’s damn Moleskine_. God. This is just great, Eames, thanks a lot. I have no idea why I’m keeping your secret. You owe me.”

He stoically absorbs Ariadne’s wrath as he refrains from reminding her that she’s keeping his secret so that he doesn’t get butchered by Arthur, thus causing the job to go belly-up and costing everyone a five-figure payday. Clicking off his cell, he pays his bill with the handsome youth who has just melted his muscles into butter and made his feet as soft as a duck’s arse. Then there’s some time to kill at a bar on the rooftop, watching the crepuscular light dwindle into the lustreless grey blur of a city night. As the clock ticks over into the next day, Eames hops in a cab and arrives at the rundown warehouse, ears and eyes alert for signs of trouble.

All is quiet in the dim light of the cavernous space. Eames treads softly towards the corner where his desk and comfy chair are, and is retrieving the Moleskine when his ear finally registers the soft whirr of the PASIV. He straightens and looks to the northeast corner where the ever-present lawn chairs are ranged around a low table, the silver machine faintly humming. Sure enough, Arthur is splayed out in one of the chairs, waistcoat partially unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, a line running into the crook of his elbow.

Heart in his throat, Eames pads over and stands as close as he dares. Arthur has been known to have a sixth sense for intruders when he’s under, and Eames doesn’t want to trigger it. He’s not sure what he wants, he just wants… He steps closer to the pool of light in which Arthur lies, golden and peaceful, features soft and lovely in repose. 

Eames is no stranger to unfulfilled desire. He’s been handily suppressing awareness of the excellence of Arthur’s… of _Arthur_...for so long, it’s second nature. He hardly thinks of it any more. The industry’s best point man has always been off limits to him, and he’s been fine with the status quo. 

Until now. 

Arthur looks unguarded in his sleep, touchable in a way that he never does awake. Eames must have noticed this before, all the many times he’s seen Arthur under while he remains topside. The impulse to kneel and brush his mouth over Arthur’s, trace the parted lips with his tongue, is unbearably strong. Eames has taken a step towards the chaise before he can stop himself, but the sound of his footstep, echoing in the otherwise nearly silent room, jolts him out of his reverie. 

He’s already broken the man’s trust by seeing things he shouldn’t have, things which Arthur no doubt would be humiliated to have discovered, most especially by Eames. He tightens his grip on the journal as he quickly checks the PASIV timer - he has 5 minutes to get out, so he reluctantly steps away from Arthur and makes his way back to the street. 

En route back to the hotel, he opens the journal and gazes, spellbound, at the many and varied portraits of himself. Fumbling with his phone and cursing himself for the risk he’s taking, he takes pictures of a few of the pages. The images are burned in his brain regardless, but he just can’t imagine letting this go without having tangible proof that he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

Then he texts Ariadne that he’s got the journal and will be by her room in 10 minutes and oh by the way, which room is it? She sends him the number and when he arrives, wordlessly grabs the offending article with a glare, then slams the door on him. 

In his room, Eames lies on the bed, still dressed, feeling as though he will never recover from the events of the day. Which is absurd. So Arthur sketches him sometimes. He’s still never given the slightest encouragement to Eames’ teasing overtures. He treats Eames with respect and courtesy whenever Eames is professional, with disdain and exasperation when Eames gets puckish. That’s the entire emotional range that Eames has seen directed towards him, and it hasn’t changed in years. 

Except that one time. Right as Eames was going down to the third level, the Fischer job. Arthur had been almost… flirtatious with him. That little smile on his lips as he told Eames to go to sleep, the way his gaze had lingered even as he turned away… it isn’t much to go on, but it’s something. 

It’s something else, all right.

Eames stands up and peels off his shirt as he worries away at the problem of what to do now. Doing nothing isn’t an option. And he can’t go to Arthur with a bouquet of flowers and say, Darling, I swiped your journal and couldn’t help but notice that you appear to fancy me rotten, let’s fuck. 

It’s time for a different strategy. Possibly one he should have tried long ago.


	5. Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating went up, from mature to explicit.
> 
> An anonymous commentator found the [artist](http://sin-repent.tumblr.com/)! Yay!
> 
> Thank you for your amazing comments so far. As a first time writer, I am flabbergasted by the response.
> 
> Thank you [kate_the_reader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader) for being such a wonderful beta reader!

Arthur uses a homemade scale to rate how FUBAR a job has gone. The meaner the headache, the higher the chances of someone losing a limb in an act of Arthurian revenge. 

This one managed to get to the very top of the list. 

He can only stand and watch as both Ariadne and Eames rush out of the warehouse less than five minutes apart. At least this will give him the chance to drop the mask and properly freak out. 

The next few hours are wasted on a very inefficient feedback loop. Shock, dismay, horror, apprehension. A few lustful thoughts prompted by the brief but vivid memory of captivating skin on a strong torso he is still refusing to draw. Shame. A few minutes of productivity, hacking through the mark’s emails. Reaching out for his notebook out of habit, but grabbing the empty one instead. Shock, dismay, horror, apprehension. Lust. Shame. The cycle never ends.

When his frazzled focus is obliterated by what must be the twenty-eighth replay of today’s events, he slams the laptop closed and drops his forehead to the desk. His right hand twitches mindlessly, itching to pick up a pen and get a least a part of it over with. With the damage already done, it’s clearly not an option. 

With a huff, he swings back on the chair and rubs his eyes. Hours of pointless planning and exhausting thinking are taking their toll on him. If he can’t avoid his thoughts topside, he might as well forget them for a while by going under.

After getting a quick look at the modifications Ariadne made during the afternoon, he goes through the motions of hooking himself up to the PASIV. 

He opens his eyes to the empty hotel lobby, sleek and modern. The space is eerily silent. He strolls around lazily, testing the latest closed loops and hidden shortcuts, then trips the alarm to force his projections to chase him. Time to see if the layout works.

To his stupefaction, it’s not one of his generic projections that gets to him first.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he blurts.

The projection winks. “I’m just making sure you don’t forget about me, pet.” 

He runs.

It’s the weirdest, most exhilarating pursuit he’s ever taken part of. Eames never quite catches him. He’s always close by, in the corner of his eye, a hot breath on the back of his neck, a hint of a caress on his arm. Each is more enticing than the last.

He’s tempted to slow down, scruples be damned. Who would he be taking advantage of, exactly? His own subconscious? Arthur is not testing the layout. He’s playing cat and mouse with his own projection of Eames, and he _wants_ to be caught.

Out of nowhere, Ariadne appears in the middle of the hallway, disgust clear on her face. 

You know you’re in real trouble when your own subconscious judges you on acting like a fucking disgrace to your profession.

She puts a gun in his hand. He doesn’t hesitate.

The morning comes too soon. He did not manage to get any shut-eye, and he doubts he’ll ever be ready to face Ariadne and the knowledge she must now possess. Giving up on keeping up appearances, he does not even go back to the hotel to change, resorting to switching his vest for a sweater he keeps in his bag.

She arrives bright and early, and does not give him a choice but to talk about the issue right away. As soon as she’s in the door, she makes a beeline to him, handing him the notebook forcefully. She confesses in one stride, until she’s out of breath. Any faster, she’d break the sound barrier.

A bet. A simple bet is at the center of it all. 

From what he gathers from her unstructured speech, Eames is behind the theft, although not the perpetrator. He zones out, the sound of her incessant excuses a background noise while he checks off worrying items from his mental list. Gone is the hypothesis of sabotage from an outside source. The painful tension in his shoulders eases a little. 

“Arthur? Arthur.” She waves her hand in front of his eyes. “You’re not even listening to me! Please don’t kill me, but why did you make such a big deal of misplacing prime numbers and scribbles?”

There goes his last worry. She doesn’t know. Eames probably doesn’t either. He would have heard about it by now. 

“Do I really need to explain to you how unsettling it is for a point man to get his notes stolen?” he says as he turns his attention back to the mark’s emails, effectively dismissing her. Once alone, he gingerly checks that no page is missing from the notebook, then slips it into his pocket. This one is never leaving his sight again.

About an hour later, a movement in his peripheral vision warns him of Eames’ arrival. Weirdly, he mumbles to himself and heads out almost immediately. Half an hour goes by before he comes back. 

Arthur pointedly ignores him, feigning absorption in what he sees on his laptop screen, but a heaven-sent smell makes his mouth water and his eyes close in longing. A light touch on his shoulder startles him. 

“You look like you need it, love,” Eames says, placing a small paper bag and a coffee cup next to his laptop, his other hand giving a quick squeeze to his shoulder before walking away. 

The delightful taste of the pistachio and orange madeleines combined with the crisp, bright flavor of the single-origin pour-over coffee gives him the much-needed push to finally relax. Crisis averted.

The day rolls by, uneventful. Yusuf eventually joins them and points out possible issues in the current Somnacin mix. Arthur volunteers to go under, letting Ariadne finalize the model while Eames analyzes the mark’s psychological profile Arthur managed to dig up and Yusuf reviews the files he put together for him.

The hotel lobby is as silent as before. A few generic projections are busy at the concierge’s counter, ignoring him. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. Nothing is amiss. Everything is under control, at last. With any luck, he’ll even manage to do a thorough check of the level’s integrity. 

He navigates the loops he meant to test yesterday, comparing the wallpaper and fail-switch designs to those in his notebook, mentally noting a few details that need adjusting. Handling the journal makes his mind wander back to Ariadne’s morning confession. He wonders. Could she be wrong? Could Eames have seen what he wasn’t supposed to see? Surely, if he did, he would tease him to no end, try to make him permanently change color and seriously consider going AWOL in the middle of the job. Instead, this morning, Eames’ been acting all… nice? 

His only warning is the sudden dimming of the lights. 

A unexpected presence behind him makes him freeze. Speaking of the devil...

The projection crowds him from behind, warm hands gripping his hips.

He feels more than he hears the deep rumble of his voice. “You’ve been neglecting me, love.” His hands snake up his torso, pulling him against his chest. Arthur stiffens, then relaxes, the familiar voice so close to his ear making him shiver. A warm spike of lust spreads through his body at the forbidden contact. The last vestiges of his conscience have the presence of mind to intertwine arousal with a dash of guilt.

“And just why are you denying yourself, pray tell? Live -- or should I say _dream_ a little, darling,” he purrs in his ear. Arthur melts, leaning in and tilting his head to the side, giving full access to the soft lips caressing his neck while the strong hands start pulling at his shirt, the hem riding out of his pants.

He surrenders completely, moaning and raising his arms to grab the projection’s neck, arching his back as the hands go lower and lower, dangerously close to where he needs them to be. He wants to plead for more. 

Instead, he protests weakly. “I’m working, Eames. The real you could walk in at any moment.”

“That’s the problem, darling. You’re always on the clock. When are you going to let loose a little?” His warm breath is in ear, his tongue tracing his earlobe, his hand slowly reaching up under his shirt while the other starts undoing his belt. “Plus, I have it on good authority that the real me would gladly join in.” 

“You’re feeding me exactly what I want to hear.”

“Ahhhhh, are you sure about that? Remember this morning, love. I went and waited in line at two different coffee shops to get you _exactly_ what you needed.” He bites down on the juncture between Arthur’s shoulder and neck, making him jump. “Forget the what-ifs and focus on the here and now.” 

Arthur can only gasp in return. He’s too far gone to worry about being caught by the real one.

He wonders how Eames would react, finding him grinding wantonly against his projection. Surprised, at first, he supposes. Then, his eyes would probably turn darker, and he'd make his way to him, licking his lips. He wouldn't mind sharing Arthur with his projection, working in tandem to elicit as many sounds as possible from him, both of them playing him as a duet, like a well-tuned instrument. Arthur would end up pressed between two tantalizing bodies, not knowing which one to give attention to, overwhelmed by sensations he’s been longing for.

Or maybe he _would_ mind. Maybe his initial surprise would be replaced by indignation and jealousy at Arthur favoring his projection over the real deal. He’d bare his teeth in rage, pouncing on them with an animalistic growl, eager to brand what should be his. The projection gone, he would bite, grip, suck and lick, claiming back each and every body part the imposter dared to touch.

Arthur's breath catches in his throat as the projection's hands undo his pants and fingers teasingly slip under his underwear waistband…

… and finds himself staring at the ceiling of the warehouse. The timer’s gone off. His conscience was saved by the bell. 

He can feel himself throbbing. Swallowing nervously, he tries to reach the bathroom as inconspicuously as possible, hoping no one notices. 

Once safe from view, he swiftly unfastens his pants, relieving the pressure. Leaning against the stall, he has to bite his bottom lip to stifle a tell-tale moan as he palms himself through his underwear. He can’t remember even being so hard in his life. 

Slipping his hand in, his mouth opens as he starts to pant, letting his fingertips trail from base to crown. This is getting a bit much, rubbing one off while thinking about a colleague a few meters away. A colleague who, realistically, would be a little put off to catch him red-handed, moaning his name while getting groped by an eerily familiar projection. 

It doesn’t stop him from tightening his grip, his mouth open in a silent scream as he works himself to completion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to unforeseen circumstances, the next few updates might take a little longer to be posted. Thank you for your patience!


	6. Eames

Eames notices, of course, that Arthur has been having an unusually … active time in the dreamscape. As he confers with Ariadne over the wisdom of adding yet another paradox to the second stairwell in the parking garage, his eye keeps getting drawn to where Arthur is doing a solo test of the Somnacin mix. It looks like there might be something wrong with it, to judge by the slight flush across the tops of Arthur’s cheekbones, not to mention the way he’s shifting from side to side restlessly. Eames is about to go over and check on him when the PASIV beeps and Arthur’s eyes flutter open. He looks upset and stalks to the rear of the warehouse, disappearing into the loos. 

Eames mutters something to Ariadne and goes over to the loos himself, pushing the door open as silently as he can. Arthur certainly won’t appreciate being mothered by a colleague, but given how peaked he’s been looking, Eames isn’t leaving anything to chance. 

He holds the door open, hesitant to go in but needing to assure himself that Arthur isn’t vomiting or passed out due to a cock-up with Yusuf’s mix. He doesn’t hear vomiting, and when he steps further inside, ensuring the door falls shut silently, he peers under the stalls and sees that Arthur is evidently upright. All is well.

Except.

Except for that sound. What is that sound, he wonders, head cocked to the side. A rhythmic sussuration, and then—oh, a quick inhalation. The answer blindsides Eames to the point that he can barely process new information. He’s stuck on the sound of that breath, the shaky need in it, the desperation. His eyes are glued to Arthur’s shoes and the brief expanse of trouser legs visible beneath the door, and he can see how the fabric is shimmying slightly, disturbed by the movements of the hand that must be curled around Arthur’s prick, working himself over.

Eames’ blood runs hot, his gut leaping with the vivid image forming in his mind’s eye. He knows he needs to get out of there before he does something crazy like crawl under the door and take that prick in his mouth. Not that he hasn’t done things as crazy, and crazier, but those were in dreams, mostly, or with people who didn’t—who weren’t Arthur. 

He gently pushes the door open and backs out, closing the door with care and walking swiftly to the exit. Ariadne quirks a look at him as he sweeps past her, but he just keeps going. He’ll text her an excuse, as soon as his brain starts working again.

Arthur is in there rubbing one out, so desperate that his normal professionalism is just out the window. He might be thinking of Eames, in fact. It’s quite likely that he is, at this moment. Imagining Eames behind him, pressing into his arse, or in front of him, taking him into his mouth. 

The cab ride back to the hotel lasts long enough for Eames to have to press the heel of his hand against his erection. He tries to distract himself with job-related planning, but his circuitry just keeps circling back around to that breathy gasp. His hard-on isn’t going anywhere.

As the cab pulls up to the hotel, Eames thrusts a wad of cash through the barrier and bursts out of the car while it’s still rolling to a halt. He strides through the lobby to the elevators, sternly ignoring the tenting of his trousers. Once in his room, he flops on the bed and loosens his belt, sliding his hand in without even unbuttoning his flies, just to give himself the relief of a quick grope. His eyes roll back in his head and he bucks into the touch, a fantasy of Arthur watching him while sketching filling his mind. 

Come to think of it, he has noticed Arthur looking over at him as he scratches away at his ever-present Moleskine. He’s never been able to read the veiled expression on Arthur’s face as he glances up, over and then away, back to his absorbing notes. Eames squeezes himself hard and withdraws his hand, reaching for his phone and quickly finding the pictures he’d taken. 

Each sketch is so tender, so forgiving of Eames’ many faults. He doesn’t really look that movie-star handsome; his chin is softer, eyes less limpid. Arthur is seeing him through a lens that Eames can’t bring himself to name, but it makes him free his erection completely as he jerks off to the image of Arthur watching him appraisingly, eyes hooded, mouth pursed as he captures every detail of Eames’ self-pleasure. 

As his heart rate slows, he lets the afterglow lull him into a meditative state. The facts are these: Eames brought Arthur his favorite pastry, and not stopping there, went halfway across the metropolitan area to get his favorite single-origin coffee. Later, Arthur went under to check the stability of the level and spent half the timed session restless and flushed, only to disappear into the loo to jerk off. Is it too much to assume these facts are related? 

Possibly so, but for the moment Eames allows himself to operate on the assumption that kindness gets Arthur’s motor running. Which begs the question: what else can he do in the same vein? 

His eyes drift shut as his hand trails over his body, idly stimulating his nerve endings to get his brain spinning in new directions. What does he know of Arthur, really? The man is so close-lipped about his personal life and predilections, but Eames has been covertly studying him for years. Honestly, it wasn’t until he was already on his way to the patisserie that he realized how odd it was that he knew Arthur’s baked-goods preference. 

He likes art museums. He reads postmodern literature. He is a wine snob and a whiskey snob but he prefers shitty beer. He has exacting standards for pho. He donates to every medical fundraiser that he stumbles across, whether he knows the person or not. He swims for exercise and followed the Olympics assiduously, but privately. He wears black or grey boxer briefs of a soft cotton-bamboo blend.

Eames knows rather a lot about Arthur, actually. 

He makes a mental list of things he might try, falling asleep to the image of Arthur’s mouth favoring him with a blinding smile. 

***

On waking, Eames has a plan. First things first, he has to concoct a reason for Arthur to spend the day with him. Given Arthur’s expertise in surveillance, perhaps something to do with bugging the mark’s office? While the job doesn’t strictly require the first-hand knowledge of the mark’s professional routine, more information never hurts. 

Entering the warehouse at an earlier hour than he has during the job so far, he sees that Arthur nevertheless has beaten him here. He’s at his desk, head bowed over a small electronic gadget. Perfect. 

“I need your help with something,” he says, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder and watching while his lovely, dexterous fingers work. 

“What’s that?” Arthur replies stiffly, shifting minutely away from him. 

“We should bug the mark’s office while he’s still on vacation, we still don’t know enough about his day to day communications with the accountant.”

Arthur pushes back in his chair to look him in the eye, brow furrowing ominously. “Shouldn’t I do that at night?” 

“Security’s too tight at that building; it’ll be far simpler if I con the receptionist into letting me in his office and you keep a lookout.”

“Sounds risky. Are you sure the intel we might get is worth it?” Arthur’s brow is fully-furrowed now, a bad sign.

“Absolutely,” Eames lies. Well, overstates. If it looks like they’re going to get rumbled, he’ll just engineer a quick exit. It’s low-risk and it’s the only way he’s going to be able to spend any time with Arthur one-on-one. He breathes a sigh of relief—it looks like Arthur’s about to give in.

“But I’m working on surveillance at the mark’s home,” Arthur says suddenly, brow clearing. “You should get Ariadne to go with you.”

As the words leave his mouth, Ariadne’s stifled screech and the sounds of collapsing foam core echo in the room. Eames suppresses a smirk. 

“Afraid Ariadne will be stuck here working on the model again,” he says smoothly, reaching a hand out to Arthur to help him out of the chair. Arthur gives the hand a look and stands up, skirting Eames and heading for the stainless steel suitcase full of miniscule long-range microphones and other surveillance equipment, packing a variety of items in his satchel. 

“I assume you trust I’m taking the right stuff?” he asks over his shoulder. Eames tears his gaze away from Arthur’s arse just in time to meet his eyes as he turns around.

“Of course, my faith in you is implicit and unshakable. Let’s get going, traffic’s going to be murder. We should probably just take the Skytrain.” 

They head out of the warehouse, Eames holding the door for Arthur and earning himself another furrowed-brow look. The sun is streaming horizontally into their eyes as they walk down the street, Arthur slightly ahead of Eames. It offers the perfect opportunity for Eames to fixate on the curve of Arthur’s bum under his finely-tailored linen trousers. 

It isn’t as if Eames has been totally successful in his self-protective attempts to elide Arthur’s various excellent qualities. Over the years, the information has drifted in, piecemeal, until the eaves of Eames’ brain are banked with the sparkling dust of countless recollections: Arthur leaning against his desk, cool and poised as he delivers a deadpan rebuttal of Eames’ argument. Arthur’s face creased in a rare grin at one of Eames’ jokes, his dimples out in full force. Arthur musing in a philosophical vein about the motivations of one of their marks, showing an unanticipated depth of understanding of the human psyche. It isn’t _just_ his arse which holds Eames now-undivided attention. 

But it does hold his undivided attention in this moment, and Eames wants to know what it would feel like under his hands, or thrusting back against his hips. He feels almost meltingly aroused and also protective, gallantry arising in him, unfamiliar but welcome. He wants to _squire_ Arthur, he realizes with a wry inward smile. 

He gets his chance a moment later, when Arthur comes to a sudden halt in front of him as a street vendor suddenly steers his cart across their path. Eames pulls up just in time avoid bumping into him, and his hand instinctively comes up to the small of Arthur’s back, steadying him and guiding him to the right. Unfortunately, Arthur jerks away from Eames’ hand and steps to the left, into the street. Where a motorcycle is swerving to avoid a tuk-tuk, directly into Arthur’s path. 

Eames grabs out for Arthur, getting a handful of the material of his shirt and yanking backwards with all his strength, hauling him onto the curb, but Arthur flails in response to the unexpected motion and hits his head on a metal signpost. Hard.

The next few minutes are a panicked blur. Normally in such situations, Eames goes on autopilot. He’s handled enough teammates in crisis, and as far as crises go, this is minor. It’s only a mild head wound, or appears to be—a matter of stanching the flow but not pressing too hard. However, the blood streaming down Arthur’s face causes a painful clenching in his chest. A frantic feeling of helplessness has him clutching Arthur to him with one arm, his other hand cupping Arthur’s chin to turn his head for inspection. 

The wound is shallow, which is good. There isn’t any immediate swelling, also good. Arthur is feebly pushing away from him, which is both good and bad.

Eames turns Arthur’s head back towards him to look into his eyes. Arthur is blinking blood out of his left eye, but Eames can see that his pupils are the same size. He thinks. For now. 

He needs to keep him under observation.

“Can you walk?” Eames murmurs, keeping Arthur upright with an arm tight around his waist. 

“I could if you’d let me go,” Arthur says weakly, then slumps a little bit. Eames picks him up in his arms and turns to a tourist standing next to them, gawping.

“Flag a taxi for us, love, would you?” The tourist blinks for a moment and then does so. Eames hauls Arthur as carefully as he can into the back seat, situating him so that he’s on his back, knees bent and head in Eames’ lap, blood trickling over Eames’ favorite pair of tropical-weight trousers. 

He asks Siri about hospitals in Bangkok and Arthur tries to sit upright. 

“No, Eames!” he sputters, then sinks back as Eames presses him down gently. “I can’t burn through this passport, I only have one spare and I might need it for my next job.” 

Eames’ lips tighten as he gives the driver the address of their hotel. He would like to override Arthur but he knows the risk of leaving that kind of data in permanent records. It’s irritating, though, and not least because it has him already worrying about Arthur’s next job. The paleness of Arthur’s face has him longing for an MRI machine.

He calls ahead to the hotel, arranging to have them let in a back entrance and have the use of a utility elevator to spare the other guests the sight of blood. Apparently this kind of request raises no eyebrows at the hotel, because they are greeted by a bored-looking service worker who asks them no questions nor shows the slightest curiosity about one male farang carrying another, severely bloodied male farang, into his hotel room.

He lays Arthur on the bed, and frets to see how the man doesn’t stir, just stays put. That is so far out of character, he almost calls for an ambulance anyway and fuck that next job. Arthur’s eyes are closed and—shit. He’s not supposed to fall asleep after a head injury! 

But how is Eames supposed to keep him awake?


	7. Arthur

Outside of the notebook theft scare and the very bothersome lack of control he has over his projections, it's the smoothest, most agreeable job Arthur’s worked on in a long time, and surprisingly Eames is to blame. Or was, until that point.

He’d need a replay to understand what happened. One minute, he’s avoiding a street vendor, the next he’s lying in the back of a car, ruining Eames’ pants. At least, he’s managed to make sure the well-meaning fool does not bring him to the hospital. What for? He’s just a little tired, that’s all. Getting your head smashed against metal objects tends to do that.

He should have voiced some kind of opposition to the bridal carry from the taxi to his hotel room, but his pride is overshadowed by nausea. 

The undignified ride ends with Eames making Arthur’s room key appear out of thin air and putting him down on the comfortable hotel bed with greater care than his bulky physique would make one expect.

Sleep. At last.

A damp touch to Arthur’s forehead makes him open his eyes reluctantly, waking him up from his light doze. The dim light coming from the bathroom accentuates worry lines upon Eames’ brow. His focus is on wiping off the blood that dried on Arthur’s face, with a face towel that is quickly turning pink.

“What are you doing? Leave it be. I’ll clean up in the morning,” Arthur mutters while ineffectively swatting Eames’ hands off his face. A grunt is Eames’ only answer. Arthur gives up, his growing headache draining his will to fight. 

Once satisfied with the state of Arthur’s face, Eames moves on to removing Arthur’s shoes, then goes for his belt buckle. The glare Arthur gives him is enough to make him revise his course of action. “Alright! Suit yourself. Be uncomfortable,” he mumbles while backing off. “How do you feel? Any nausea?”

“I’m peachy. Best day of my life. Now, can I rest?” Arthur pleads, head sinking deeper in the pillow, closing his eyes to try and keep the queasiness at bay.

The dull sound of the armchair being moved makes him crack an eye open. Eames is now sitting down a foot away from the bed, shifting to find a comfortable position. Why isn’t he leaving?

Arthur sighs. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

Eames’ trademark smirk finally makes an appearance on his disturbingly serious face. Apparently, getting common sense knocked out of him with a metal signpost does not make the sight of him less attractive. Eames is slouched on the armrest, his jaw supported by his hand, his long legs stretched and his red-socked feet on the bed, close to Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur mentally adds the debonair pose to the drawing queue. 

A light push against his thigh startles him awake. When did he fall asleep? He wriggles deeper under the blankets, shifting his leg away.

“I think you zoned out for a bit, darling,” Eames whispers. Through his sleep daze, Arthur allows himself to imagine that the voice is closer, in the bed with him. He could get used pretty easily to waking up to that sound every morning. 

Arthur rolls on his side to face him, wincing as the head wound ends up pressed against the pillow. “I’m a little sleepy, to be honest, Eames.”

“And your head hurts. I’ll go get some ice. Don’t move.”

This time, it’s the soft caress of fingers cradling his jaw that rouses him from sleep. The ice brings him instant relief. A small moan escapes him, out before he can stop it. 

Eames is now sitting on the floor, his face inches away from Arthur’s face, so close his fond smile is all Arthur can see.

“You don’t have to watch over me. I’ll just sleep it off and I’ll be fine in the morning, I promise.”

Eames tuts, locking eyes with Arthur. “You got hurt on _my_ watch, working on a job _I’m_ leading. It’s the bare minimum I make sure you stay awake.”

“Awake?” He rolls his eyes, triggering another bout of nausea. “Even if I have a concussion, which I don’t, you don’t need to keep people awake for that.”

“Says who, love? My mum’s a nurse. If you don’t trust my second-hand medical knowledge, you should have just let me take you to the hospital.”

“Well, if you don’t believe me, just Google it. They changed guidelines on concussions years ago.” 

“Me? Research? I wouldn’t want to take the fun away from you, darling,” Eames teases. “There’s a reason the job goes better when you are working point. This is a skill I absolutely refuse to improve on. I enjoy your presence too much to make do without you.”

Arthur gives up. “Does your _out-dated_ second-hand medical knowledge cover fighting off nausea? It’d come in handy right about now.”

Eames’ blinding smile would put the sun to shame. “It does, actually!” He stands up, lifting the blankets’ corner and gently rolling Arthur. “I’ll need you on your back, love. The shirt will have to come off.”

“Of course. I walked right into this one, didn’t I?” 

“I need access to your arm,” Eames chuckles. “I won’t look. See? I turned around. Your virtue is safe with me.”

Arthur scoffs, but take off his shirt nonetheless, then burrows himself under the covers again, leaving his arm on top of them. “Do your magic.”

Eames returns to his previous position, this time on his knees. The first touch of his fingers on Arthur’s inner forearm has the effect of an electric shock, sending warm tendrils of pleasure up his arm and down his back. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat at the contact.

The ghostly touch slowly transforms into circular motions, rubbing a specific spot on his forearm.

Swallowing forcibly, Arthur tries to even out his breath before asking, “You want me to believe that you will massage the nausea away?” It ends up sounding rougher than he intends.

“It’s called acupressure. Bear with me, love. Suspension of disbelief might be needed, but I swear it works. I played rugby, you know? Of course you know. You know everything, don’t you? Well, I’ve hit my head plenty of times. I’m lucky I’m not that brain addled. My mum used to do this to help with nausea, back in the day.”

Against all odds, the repetitive motion actually helps. Arthur listens to Eames distractedly, letting his voice lull him back to sleep. He really does have a nice voice. Arthur couldn’t ask for a better lullaby. He keeps drifting in and out, feeling safe and warm. 

The next time he comes to, it’s to the sound of birds. Warm sunshine is peeking through the blinds. Counting his blessings, he looks around, wondering where sleep enemy #1 wandered off. 

Eames either eventually wound down or his body gave up on him while he was keeping watch. No matter which, he’ll wake up with a crick in his neck, that’s for sure. He’s breaking a number of physical laws, asleep while somehow managing to maintain his precarious position on the small chair. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen off.

Arthur allows himself a few minutes to take in the sight. Were he intrepid enough, he’d make a masterpiece out of it, here and now. Even asleep, Eames’ body positions itself gracefully, enticing Arthur with its complex lines and tempting curves, begging him to worship it on paper.

He’s seen Eames asleep before, obviously, but always hooked up to a PASIV, in the midst of imminent danger or on a tight deadline, with teammates all around. Never in the dim morning light. Never the two of them alone in an hotel room. Never without a countdown telling him precisely when the moment would end. This is new.

Arthur can’t tear his eyes away. Parted lips begging to be crushed against his own, hips canted forward, legs spread wide, inviting Arthur to rouse him from sleep with his fingers, his mouth. Then there would be strong hands running through his hair, caressing Arthur’s scalp yearningly, while Eames moaned and pushed his cock deeper in Arthur’s mouth, chasing completion at an unhurried pace, Arthur’s name on his lips, among a litany of endearments and pleas for more.

Arthur breathes deeply, willing his body to stop responding to the alluring daydream.

Time for a cold shower.

 

Arthur emerges from the bathroom to the familiar smell of poor-quality hotel coffee. His stomach rumbles. 

A dishevelled Eames looks up from the small office desk covered in food, raising an eyebrow. “A suit, Arthur? Really?” 

“I gathered that if you deemed my condition stable enough to allow me to sleep, we’d soon be on our way to the warehouse.”

“Ah.” A self-conscious cough. “I called my mum. The term “overzealous” might have been used, but she was adamant I keep you under observation for another twenty-four hours. I’m afraid she also said absolutely no physical activity, nor strenuous mental activity.”

“But the job --”

“No reading, no computer work, no hooking yourself up to a PASIV. I contacted the rest of the team already. We’re staying right here.” Eames’ resolute tone leaves no room for argument. 

“You can’t seriously think I’ll agree to you babysitting me for another twenty-four hours, Eames.”

“It’s my job. I feel responsible. Plus, you’re too stubborn to be trusted with resting all day. You’re stuck with me, pet,” he says with a flirty smile, bringing his coffee cup to his lips. “When’s the last time you had a friend sleep over?” 

“I am _not_ having a pillow fight with you,” Arthur scoffs, walking around Eames to grab an apple. 

The sound of Eames choking on his coffee makes him grin. Arthur 1, Eames 0.

“Duly noted.” Eames’ voice is rough, still struggling to get air in. Would it sound similar after a night screaming Arthur’s name? 

Eames has put his coffee on the bedside table and laid down on the bed when Arthur turns around. His arms are crossed behind his head and the quirk of his lips signals imminent teasing. 

“If pillow fights are out, how about some pillow talk?” With that, he flips on his side and pats the pillow next to where he’s lying. 

“I’m not falling for that, Eames,” Arthur says, averting his eyes from the attractive spectacle. “I don’t even want to be stuck here, I’m definitely not going to spend all day in bed. No matter how “worried” your mom is.”

Eames huffs in exaggerated irritation. “I still insist, though. Suits are not part of the proper sleepover uniform. Do you even own something that is not bespoke?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, then bites down on the apple. “I don’t see you wearing pajamas either, Eames.”

Uh oh. The return of the smug grin. “Well, if you care to know, darling, jim jams are not my prefered attire for sleeping. I much prefer the feeling of the sheets on my bare skin.”

Arthur 1, Eames 1. 

Arthur turns away, hopefully in time to hide the blush that is threatening to cover his face. Wouldn’t he love to be an additional stimulus to his naked flesh, molding his body to Eames’ in the most primal dance. What a dangerous train of thoughts.

He can hear Eames shuffling off the bed, then slowly getting closer. A tentative hand catches him by the elbow. “Are you alright?” 

Arthur nods and lets Eames lead him to the chair. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll dial it down a notch.”

Shit. He knows. 

Arthur snaps his attention back to Eames’ face, trying to assess the damage.

Eames is back to his most professional self, focusing the laser beam of his perceptive hazel eyes on Arthur. “Seeing you up and about made me forget how hard you were hit yesterday. I’ll try not to give you a headache on top of it,” he adds with a polite smile. 

Huh. Maybe he’ll get through the day with his pride intact, after all.

The TV is off limits. Reading is off limits. Anything remotely brain-stimulating is off limits. It should have been the dullest, most boring day of his life, but Arthur enjoys every minute spent in Eames’ company. 

He can’t help but wonder if the sudden flirting cessation really is for his benefit, but quickly forgets about this morning’s comment, too busy being charmed by his witty, inventive colleague.

They exhaust their combined list of card games, then test some new ones found on Internet. Arthur teaches Eames road trip games he used to play with his parents while travelling on summer vacation. Eames shares his favourite drinking games, made significantly tamer by the fact that both of them are only drinking water.

Although the nausea is gone, the exhaustion is still a force to be reckoned with. By late afternoon, Arthur just can’t keep his eyes open, and has to agree when Eames suggests a nap.

He is progressively awakened by the rhythmic sound of Baudelaire stanzas, made even more compelling by Eames’ accented French. _À Celle qui est trop gaie_. Of course, trust the forger to pick his mark’s favorite poem. 

Still in the lovely area between sleep and awakeness, Arthur lets the words caress him, barely opening an eye to look at Eames reading on the armchair. He’s back in yesterday’s position, legs propped on the bed, next to Arthur’s thigh. Several hours have gone by, if the darkness of the room is to be believed.

Arthur can’t help but join in for the last octave, looking at Eames through hooded eyes, still heavy with sleep. Surprise is apparent on Eames’s face as he looks up and stutters on the first line, but he gets back to it right away, their voices mingling together, imbuing a whole new strength to the already loaded text. 

_Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,_  
_Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,_  
_Et faire à ton flanc étonné_  
_Une blessure large et creuse_

_Et, vertigineuse douceur!_  
_À travers ces lèvres nouvelles,_  
_Plus éclatantes et plus belles,_  
_T’infuser mon venin, mon coeur!_

Jesus Christ. Eames even read the last line with the modification Arthur made decades ago. How the hell would he know that? 

“Quite the racy choice, don’t you think, Mr. Eames?” Despite his best efforts, his voice is even lower than usual, his whole body thrumming with arousal. 

“Is it? I confess, my French isn’t was it used to be.” He raises the book to show Arthur. Of course. He’s reading from Arthur’s copy. Eames pauses, making sure to make eye contact with Arthur before continuing. “Since I grabbed _your_ racy book, perhaps you’ll enlighten me with a translation?”

Fighting a whole body shiver, Arthur cannot break eye contact with Eames. The universe has stopped existing around them. There is only a warm fire filling his entire being, fed by the palpable tension in the room. He can hear himself murmuring the words memorized decades ago, as if someone else took command while he’s floating, lost in those hazel eyes.

_In order to correct your gay flesh_  
_And beat your unbegrudging breast,_  
_To make upon your starting thigh_  
_A long and biting weal,_

_And, sweet giddiness,_  
_Along those newly-gaping lips_  
_More vivid and more beautiful,_  
_Inject my venom, O my heart!_

“Oh,” Eames breathes out, a fetching flush adorning his cheeks.

Oh indeed.


End file.
